A little girl stunned me in front of my entire company when she pointed out the tattoo I'd kept hidden for thirteen years—and the instant her mother whispered my supposedly dead brother's name, I realized she was the key to a deadly family secret.

Two months passed. The scent of smoke had finally washed away from the mountain air, replaced by the smell of freshly cut timber and wet cement. The reconstruction of the estate was in full swing. We had decided not merely to rebuild the west wing, but to redesign it—turning it into a modern, fortified structure masked behind a beautiful, classic facade.

I stood on the newly poured concrete terrace, watching the construction crews work under the autumn sun. My shoulder had fully healed, leaving behind a jagged pink scar that crossed perfectly over the black wolf tattoo on my forearm.

"They're making good progress," a voice said from behind.

I turned to see Igor standing there, wearing a sharp suit instead of his usual leather jacket. Since the night of the attack, the alliance with the Volkovs had shifted into a legitimate business partnership. We were combining our resources to control the shipping ports legally, freezing out any remaining criminal elements.

"They are," I agreed, shaking his hand. "Viktor sent you?"

"He sends his regards, and these," Igor said, handing me a thick folder of documents. "The final contracts for the dockside development project. Completely legitimate, above board, and highly profitable."

"Tell Viktor I'll review them tonight," I smiled. "It's strange, isn't it? Working together on paper instead of fighting in the shadows."

Igor chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "The world is changing, Sebastian. Men like us must adapt, or we end up like Lucien—dead in a basement."

"Adapt and survive," I nodded.

As Igor left, Clara walked out onto the terrace, leading Emma by the hand. Emma was carrying a small, wooden birdhouse that she had painted in bright, chaotic colors.